The Pickle Jar

By Julia Skinner

Rule one: Never let anyone see you put the pickle jar back on the guardrail. Jaxa tugged on her black ninja shirt, which overlaid matching black pants and blended with her dark hair.

Rule two: Look epic on every mission.

The still silence dragged at her heels as Jaxa fumbled out of her room and crossed the hall to the kitchen. She only ran into the wall once, which she thought was pretty impressive. Last time she tried to do something in the dark she’d almost murdered every vase and lamp in the house.

Gripping the edge of the counter, Jaxa made her way to the fridge. The looming pale box hummed suspiciously, as if it wanted to announce her mission to the world. She hesitated. For as long as she could remember, her dad had put a jar of dill pickles atop the guardrail of the freeway at the end of their street. Whenever it was stolen or broken, he’d dressed in black and crept out late at night to replace it.

But she’d never had to do the mission herself.

Tense, Jaxa tugged the fridge open, splaying light across the floor. Black spots dappled across her vision. She covered her eyes with one hand, blindly snatching the palm-sized pickle jar on the middle shelf, and snapped the door shut again. Heart pattering like a dozen tiny feet running inside her chest, she clutched the jar close. Despite being the only person in the house, she couldn’t help feeling as though someone had seen the light. What if somebody caught her? She couldn’t let herself be seen. That was like… rule number one!

“Look, all I have to do—” She cut off and clapped a hand over her mouth. Oops. Dad had told her three hundred times to learn to keep her words inside her head while on a mission. But sometimes they just popped out. Look, she continued in her mind, all I have to do is make it down the street without being seen and place the jar on the rail. Easy peasy.

Jumping at every little creak, Jaxa snuck through her house to the front door. As she stepped out onto the cement, the night swelled around her like a misty ocean dressed in ninja clothes. Despite the weak glow cast by the streetlamps, it was really dark. Her neighbor’s windows peered at her like gaping black holes, and the street ran like a river of tar. It’s just so… Jaxa hadn’t expected it to be so… shadowy out here. She hugged the jar, feeling the cold seeping through her clothes. “I am the pickle bestower!” she whispered fiercely. “I do not fear the dark.”

Jaxa snapped her mouth shut. Oops, quiet… stealth… this is a quiet stealth mission. No talking! She squinted at her neighbor’s house.

Dad was never afraid of the dark.

When her dad had been diagnosed with cancer, he’d looked at her and said, “Anything can be important, if it holds the right memories.” And that meant pickles, so here she was, continuing what he started.

The uneven cement scuffed against her shoes as she slowly walked forward. On each side, the houses lining the street were shrouded in a frozen silence. Because everyone is asleep, she thought, like I should be.  But she had something better than a good night’s rest. She had a jar of good times all wrapped up in pickled memories. Just holding it brought her dad’s stern face to mind, a face which had hid a sense of humor the size of the world.

At the end of the street, she crouched beside the shrubbery edging the road, waiting as a lone car rumbled past. Across the street, the freeway stood black in the night, its railing jar-less and desolate.

“Never fear, despairing railing,” she whispered before pressing her lips together and glancing around. No one jumped out of the shadows, pointing accusingly. No one called out.

She jogged across the road and scrambled up the cement slope to the guardrails lining the edge of the freeway. Aha! Made it! At the moment, it was empty, just a deserted racetrack running endlessly into the night. But in the morning everyone driving by would glance out their windows and see her dad’s pickle jar.

And it would make them smile.

Suddenly, Jaxa knew why her dad had kept on replacing the jar.

She set the new jar on top of the guardrail and stepped back. In the moonlight, the glass almost looked as if it were lined with a soft silvery sheen, beautifully contrasted by the dark green dill pickles inside. Dad’s favorite kind. She saluted it with a sharp flick of her hand before turning back down the slope. Rule number three, she could almost see her dad laying in the hospital bed again, stern face breaking into a rare smirk as he told her his final rule. Share the good memories.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julia Skinner is a seventeen year old writer, blogger, and ice cream enthusiast. When she’s not working on one of her (many) Sci-Fi Fantasy novels, she can be found playing video games, happy-ranting about one of Brandon Sanderson’s books, or wondering just how many germs are on the door handle. Julia strives to bring glory to her Savior, Jesus Christ, and if any good comes from her journey, it’s because of Him.

---

More Stories | Author Website | Instagram | Twitter